telegrams from faraway
by b-isforblair
Summary: English tea served with crumpets and charades. France champagne served with éclairs and equanimity. The letters are sent, words said, actions done. We must all play our respective parts. — Klaroline, Oneshot, AU (French Revolution)


**telegrams from faraway**

Tout vient à point  
>à qui sait attendre.<strong>*<strong>

.  
>.<p>

He is England and she is France. And so, they begin their game. A tête-à-tête for her—the girl-cavalier—and him, Hamletesque and sordid with familial secrets drifting along graveyards. She is smart, wise, disenchanted: a snake. And he is too, but wilier and less enamoured with using underhand mirages, and so, he calls himself a fox.

She laughed when he first said that, asking her to dance.

"Monsieur, I cannot be so easily impressed," _won_.

"It seems _you_ are the one trying to impress me," _ch__é__rie, for all your airy, fairy tarries_.

"Yet you are the one who requested my presence here tonight."

"Practical. Simple."

"So you say."

"Mademoiselle, I am a businessman."

"And I was raised by business_men_. I know how to play the part."

"Perhaps."

She scowls, he smirks. One-zero. France recedes (forfeits the Thames). Charms fade, beauty diminished, Caroline is left excavated (Versailles is burnt, demolished—the queen waits at the guillotine). And so, she pursues through a different route.

Fingers, deft and cunning, roam down his face—trickling, tricky—she seeks to entice. He is unfazed, brushes her off (brusque). She pouts.

There is no laughter, no mirth. France refuses to surrender the Severn too. Old _Blue Severn_, where dreams return to be rest eternally—

"A dance, Monsieur Mikaelson?"

"Delighted."

The waltz begins. She lifts her dress, long and coiling behind her like a serpentine tail. They step in synchrony. Almost, she complements him and then remembers: she plays to win.

* * *

><p>Tipsy, drowned in fine, crystal champagne and gorged thick cream (éclairs and Napoleon cakes), she slips from her silks and tosses the garments aside. Hot and sinewy, she embraces him, slouched in drunken torpor.<p>

Niklaus freezes, thinking: _she has gone mad_.

But thinks _again _of an exceptional opening. A merger, hostile take-over, he couldn't care less. All Niklaus ever sees in the end. And how, always and forever, the world serves only as an amusement.

"You look great in a tux," Caroline slurs.

_And you look great naked_.

"But this bowtie is really nasty," she continues, peeling it off layer by layer. "You should loosen up some, Monsieur Mikaelson. Maybe we can play a game?"

"Of what?"

She straddles him, leans in, pushing his shoulders back (head against the board). He pauses, wanting to shake her off (gaining control).

"To see who has more wits unfettered, what you people would call _equanimity_."

"We never lose, _love_."

Caroline turns to kiss him, a long strand of honey-yellow hair falls from her chignon (wavy and curly). Her painted cat-mouth finds his, and inch away, and all of a sudden, she laughs and leaves. Her thin body vanishes with sidereal grace—a shooting star, meteor shower. The dazzles fizzle and fray into tattered, stardust robes and the ghost of skeletal woman.

Fatigued and jaded, Niklaus sighs heavily and gulps down water, nursing the onslaught of a skull-splitting migraine.

* * *

><p>She is a magician and he is the rabbit. She takes and transforms him into whatever she wants, a dove, a deck of flying cards. And when her show is finished, into the cage she stuffs him until she is ready for the next stage.<p>

The audience claps, already in love.

Haunted by childhood memories (of a young boy from London, the mystic waters and hazy temple horizons), Caroline composes a letter. Gold-gilt pen at hand and velvety paper in sight, she sets to write.

And stops.

Thoughts sullen and sunken (tonight). Her mind bursts with animated speed, like a stallion on course in the Derby.

_Monsieur Mikaelson,_

_I loathe being trifled with. Seeing as how I am to entertain you for another week, until your stay in Paris concludes, I warn you not to mock me. I can be infamously merciless should you test me further._

_—Caroline Forbes_

Sealed with a kiss, ruby-red Chanel (of French flair and descent), Caroline slams down her insignia ring into the semi-boiling wax.

* * *

><p>"Niklaus Mikaelson, it is wonderful to meet you."<p>

Niklaus eyes stopped, wizened man sceptically, notes his lint-free Armani suit and dangling Hermes tie, and is hardly intimidated.

"The pleasure is mine, Monsieur Forbes."

"You are finding Parisian hospitality to be suitable?"

Niklaus smiles, ever the diplomat. "Of course. Your daughter has been a marvellous host."

"Excellent, excellent. I confess, Monsieur Mikaelson, that when your father first abdicated in favour of you, I was hesitant to continue with the deal. But you have proven yourself more competent than men twice your age."

_Or thrice my age,_ Niklaus pictures the man toppled over, presumably from a "natural cause" (heart attack or some other banal medical abnormalities).

"I am glad to know I have not disappointed you."

"Then we will continue to sign?"

"One moment."

"Is there a problem?"

"Yes. I believe the situation has changed. And you are in no position to negotiate. Bankruptcy is a very grim fate, isn't it?"

* * *

><p>Wry and humorously dry, Niklaus re-examines Caroline's letter. And with the proper elegance and graciousness, he returns the favour.<p>

_Mademoiselle Caroline,_

_I believe it is you who should watch your words. The announcement must have been made by now (gossip travels fast). Your father is on the verge of being disgraced, and your family's esteemed, prestigious, august, illustrious, etc. name is to be no more very shortly._  
><em>Therefore, I suggest you grovel for my mercy. But rest assured, it shall be attained with extreme difficulty.<em>

_—Niklaus Mikaelson_

_P.S. Agreement to dinner at seven, tomorrow night, might mitigate my wrath._

_P.P.S. Your livid expression will be thanks enough._

"Dispatch this at once. And send three dozen roses along with the letter," he adds as a second thought.

Niklaus closes his eyes and dreams of autumn leaves and rushing waterfalls (and a small girl, _la petite fille_—_et jolie_—he met when he was young).

* * *

><p>"This is blackmail," Caroline remarks acidly.<p>

"I know. Are you ready to order?"

"I know the menu by _heart_."

"Well then, kindly convey your selection to the waiter, love."

"You're a cruel man, Niklaus Mikaelson."

"And you are a 'merciless' woman, I seem to recall."

"I do not force someone to go on a date against his will!"

"You should enjoy yourself. Tomorrow, you will see a drastic change in lifestyle."

Caroline gives him another withering, mordant look. He remains stoically cool, humming to an imaginary tune, cheery at her dreary pallor.

* * *

><p>Before the month is through, Niklaus obtains the papers to the Forbes estates, businesses, everything. He issues them an ultimatum: serve obediently under him or be evicted. (Their choice, really, he was being generous.)<p>

The father resigns (double-entendre, _il a attendu_) and is spared. The mother (dead) receives a wreathe of charily chosen funerary flowers. As for the daughter, _Niklaus smiles insidiously_, something grand, something thunderous.

_Mademoiselle Caroline,_

_I thank you for your lovely company. You will be glad to know I no longer require your services as host._

_—Niklaus Mikaelson_

He declares war, knowing she is too prideful, too imperious to resist.

* * *

><p>"Our family's situation is very…precarious," the father laments.<p>

The daughter shrugs. "What can I do?"

"You should know."

"Father…"

"Please."

She sighs melodramatically and stares him down (upwards slanted eyes lined sharply for affected, theatrical glitz). "I'll try, Father. But that man is demonic."

_Monsieur (Mr) Niklaus,_

_I am currently in Oxford, at the notorious resort. I hear you will be passing the region in five days' time. I would like your company for a drink on the night of September 19th._

_—Caroline Forbes_

_P.S. The River Thames is looking outstandingly miserable today. _

* * *

><p>"You actually showed up."<p>

Niklaus sits down opposite her, deliberates over her plunging neckline and backless appeal and what sinister illusions she's alluding to. Desperate or exceedingly ingenious she is acting, he didn't care. She can play and bargain all she wants, but he has the advantage.

"I make promises to keep," Niklaus states calmly.

She smiles brilliantly. "Perfect. I've taken a great liking to you, Mr Mikaelson. I—"

"I propose a marriage."

She drops the pretences. Mouth runs dry, neck sore, eyes frail and cold. Caroline is finally caught off guard.

"Excuse me?", she says, finding voice.

"A marriage. Between you and I. It will benefit you and your family significantly."

"But—"

"Why I'm just being pragmatic, perceptive."

"But you're not the marrying type."

"Neither are you, love."

He smirks, toys the poison-dabbed garnish. "Stop with the schemes, Caroline. This arrangement is the best option for you. And you have run out of options."

She stares at him steadily, realizing he's not trying to corner her, realizing was his intentions are. And how they match hers, smooth and suave. "I will consider this carefully."

"Good." Niklaus props open a menu.

"I'm afraid I don't have this one memorized yet," Caroline admits and sips her wine (grimaces at the upstart England flavours).

* * *

><p>They marry in March (haven't spoken in weeks or met in months). A Treaty is signed, both parties acknowledged.<em> And now, I proclaim you: husband and wife.<em>

She frowns but concedes to a dance. He holds her close, impassive and bored. She plans for a honeymoon disaster, him and her problems instantly eliminated. But she'll be kind. He's been a worthy opponent.

—Niklaus sidesteps, she falters—

Smiling, he catches her in the end and twirls her 'round.

_Or maybe we'll grow to like each other_, she thinks.

Just a bit.

.  
>.<p>

*****Everything comes with time  
>to those who can wait.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** This takes place during the French Revolution, around the time Marie Antoinette was sentenced to death (1793). That's why Klaus is his usual (_attractive!_) British self and Caroline a mademoiselle from France (since making her an American surely wouldn't show the importance of the language here).


End file.
